Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

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СКАЧАТЬ in the corner, stacked documents on the neighboring desks.

      This was meant to be, she told herself while waiting in her seat. Having barely caught the sergeant on his way out was a sign: Her life would soon be turning around.

      Giddiness, which had sprouted during her rush from the bus stop, flourished now as she studied the posters, an array of Army recruitment plastering the wall. She’d seen them a million times— the vibrant drawings of gorgeous gals in uniform, posed before waving flags, proclaiming a need for women with Star-Spangled hearts. Then there was the portrait of old Uncle Sam, in dire need of a visit to the barber, scaring boys into the service with his menacing eyes and accusatory finger.

      Until today, though, it hadn’t dawned on her that those messages were also meant for her. Not the way they were intended maybe, but in the same realm.

      “Afraid we don’t have anything stronger than water round here.” The uniformed sergeant approached with a pair of paper cups and handed one over. Easing into his desk chair, he reclined with the same cloying arrogance he wore when they’d met at the diner. He didn’t deserve to be as good-looking as he was.

      “Water’s perfect, thanks,” she said, and drew a polite sip.

      “So tell me, Betty. What brings you down to my neck of the woods?” Smugness lingered in his smile. It was clear he believed she’d hunted him up in hopes of a rendezvous; no doubt plenty of other girls had done the same. Awaiting her answer, he took a drink, eying her as if examining a rack of lamb at the butcher shop.

      That’s when Betty realized why she had actually remembered his name: J.T. Wessel sounded remarkably similar to Just a Weasel. Fitting. She could have opted for another recruiter, but seeing J.T.’s reaction would be worth every second.

      She straightened in her chair, and with her chin determinedly set, she reported, “I’m here to enlist.”

      His cup crinkled slightly in his grip. He pulled his water away and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, did you say you—”

      “Wanted to enlist.” Evidently, his enticing pitches about overseas service had filled his little black book more than his enlistment quota. She grinned with satisfaction. “Why, yes, I did.”

      To his credit, he gathered himself quickly. “I see,” he said. Then he scrounged a pencil from his torrent of papers. “Did you have a particular area in mind?”

      “As a matter of fact, yes.” Time to unleash her idea on the world: essentially, a civilian’s role with all the perks. “I’d like to sing,” she replied.

      He went still for a moment before raising his head. “You . . . wanna sing. For the Army.” Confusion stretched his words, his eyes. She was rather enjoying this.

      “The Army has bands, doesn’t it?”

      “Well . . . yes . . .”

      “Then it should have vocalists as well. Obviously, the USO sees the importance of singers in raising soldiers’ morale. I think the Army would agree, don’t you?”

      He opened his mouth, but no argument formed, which only fed her confidence to continue.

      “The military believes in promoting entertainment. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have the likes of Joe DiMaggio playing baseball for the Armed Forces. And I for one don’t see how this is any different.”

      J.T. nodded slowly, as if receiving the information through Morse code. Then a broad grin returned. “Betty, I’d be happy to look into that. For now, though, let’s just get some basic paperwork going.” He poised his pencil. “How about we start with your full name and age.”

      Right away, she rattled off her information, enunciated all but her middle name—“Betty Jo” sounded like such a hillbilly.

      “So you just turned twenty?” he confirmed.

      “That’s right.”

      “In that case, as you probably know, you’ll need parental permission.”

      “Say again?”

      “Since you’re under twenty-one.” He scribbled and looked up. “Is that a problem?”

      A problem? He could say that.

      But how could she tactfully phrase that her father had been some married guy who’d split before she was born, and that her mother, the fool who fell for him, was the last person Betty wanted help from? Besides, her communication with her mom had slimmed to mere holiday cards years ago, after Betty was dumped on relatives in Evanston—supposedly a means to curb the high schooler’s rebellious nature.

      At least in the end, with all her aunt’s plastic-covered furniture and earmarked Bibles, Betty had realized that living with a mother who was home every minute of the day, versus always out working like her own, could be just as miserable.

      “My mother,” Betty explained, “actually lives in Kansas.” She couldn’t say the state name without it sounding raspy and rushed. Like a sneeze from a cold she couldn’t kick. “Do you need to see her, or is there any other way?”

      “We do need her signature in person, but I could send a local recruiter to get it.”

      “Great,” she said, before catching the disappointment ground into the word. She was about to divert with a peppier sentence when the clicking of footsteps interrupted, saving her.

      “Afternoon, Sergeant,” a uniformed female called from the doorway. She was hardly as attractive as the Women’s Army Corps on the poster, but was just as magnetic. Everything from the shiny captain’s bars on her shoulder loops to her authoritative chin commanded attention.

      J.T.’s posture stiffened like a pole. “Ma’am.”

      “Busy recruiting, I see?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “Nice to see you’ve been paying attention.” After a brief pause, the captain produced a chiding smile. “Back at it, then. We need every fine lady we can get.” She tipped her billed hat at Betty and strode into her office, shutting the door behind her.

      How fascinating to see a woman in power for a change, specifically over a man.

      A down-to-business look tightened J.T.’s face, only an ounce of resentment leaking through. He glanced back at his document. “So tell me, is there any other area you might be interested in?”

      “Other area?”

      “Outside of singing, that is. An alternative you might consider.”

      She was about to say no—why would she need one?—when he added in a whisper, “Just have to put something on paper. A formality for the file.”

      “Oh. Oh, right.”

      He resumed his spiel. “You know, there’s lots of exciting things you can do in the WAC, and with skills you already have. For instance, do you know how to drive?”

      She shrugged. “Never been a need, with me living around Chi cago.”

      “Sure, СКАЧАТЬ